


hard to bear

by bunshima



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Self-Harm, in which connor has crippling android dysphoria, rated m for m...... mandroid gore
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-08
Updated: 2018-06-14
Packaged: 2019-05-19 12:34:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14873840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bunshima/pseuds/bunshima
Summary: However, Connor feels restless. He may have learned to enjoy the smaller things, but he feels… complete. Too complete. He feels too perfect, too flawless. It makes him feel so incredibly synthetic still, giving him the urge to break from his given confines. If only it was that easy. There must be something he can do, must remove something that keeps him from seeming human. Being a deviant, being capable of showing emotion (even if fabricated and rigid) is no longer enough for Connor. He needs it all, the full package.And then. That’s when he catches a glimpse of bright red, reflecting on the countertop.His LED.The tips of his fingers begin to itch horribly.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [creakdata](https://archiveofourown.org/users/creakdata/gifts).



> oof, yall know how i write things on a whim? well this is another one of those
> 
> disclaimer: no beta, woowee first detroit fic and its this, if knives stuck in heads make u uncomfortable (even if its an android) then this is not for u, a lot of this is pulled outta my ass and jus. yeah. take it as it is ples.

A lot has changed over the past few months. The android revolution in Detroit has sowed its seeds across the whole country by now. And even the one prototype who was least expected to show deviant tendencies had become one of his own. Jericho had offered to take him in, Markus even welcomed him with open arms, but Connor found himself wishing for a simpler life, away from everything that comes with a large scale revolution such as this one. Even Fowler had no further problems with letting him retire– and perhaps it's best that way; Connor never really liked him to begin with, and the feeling was likely mutual. Being addressed as ‘plastic prick’ all day only became more and more grating with each day at work, so he doesn’t regret this new change of pace at all.

Dry food clatters as it's poured into a large bowl. From across the living room, Sumo immediately perks up, paws scampering over the floor and slipping as he sprints over to his bowl, almost running into Connor's shins. The initial shock has him reel back just a bit, hands catching him on the kitchen counter.

“Easy, Sumo.”, he chides after he puts away the bag of dry food, the LED at his temple flickering red for a split second. However, there's no answer– no huff or barking– since Sumo is snout deep in his dry food, eating as if it was the last meal he'd ever get. Pfft, dogs.

He decides to sit down next to the Saint Bernard, legs crossing. Cue yellow flickering; he's observing. Since Connor started taking care of him, Sumo had lost some weight, his fur no longer looks dull, and it's freed of matted bits. A pretty dog, really. Gently he ruffles the fur between the dog's shoulders. Caring for an animal has something therapeutic, Connor finds, but it will never beat petting one. It doesn't take Sumo long to finish his bowl and he immediately goes to draping himself over the android's lap, not so subtly asking for pets. Obviously, Connor can't find himself able to deny him. With both hands he rubs the dog's flanks, immediately earning himself happy panting and excessive tail wagging.

“Good boy–”, Connor praises, then does it again in a softer tone, “Good boy.”

A last time he pats his side and then lifts him off his lap without much trouble, albeit his resistance to cuddling earns him whining and Sumo turning his head to give Connor a sad look. Now, he has to admit, that is something he can't resist. His lips press into a tight line for a moment, but then he eventually goes back to petting Sumo, who turns onto his back so Connor may reach his belly.

“Alright, that's enough for now.”, he says after a few more moments and then gets up, patting the dog hair off his pants.

Sumo whines at him loudly, which soon turns into full-blown yowling.

“Sumo.”, Connor replies as if the dog was actually speaking to him, faked seriousness weighing in his tone, “Why are you throwing a temper tantrum?”

Cue a loud huff.

“I cannot pet you all day.” Hands find his hips.

Sumo looks at him for a second in disappointment, before turning away in an almost dramatic manner. Drama queen.

He gently nudges the Saint Bernard out of the way, so that he doesn't accidentally fall over him (which has happened before) and takes a moment to stand in the kitchen to scan his surroundings. What hasn't he done in this household yet? Hank's house has never been this clean before, judging by the few times he's been here during his time as detective. There's no more bottles scattered about, no takeout or pizza boxes littering the place– it actually looks quite nice now. However, Connor feels restless. He may have learned to enjoy the smaller things, but he feels… complete. Too complete. He feels too perfect, too flawless. It makes him feel so incredibly synthetic still, giving him the urge to break from his given confines. If only it was that easy. There must be something he can do, must remove something that keeps him from seeming human. Being a deviant, being capable of showing emotion (even if fabricated and rigid) is no longer enough for Connor. He needs it all, the full package.

And then. That’s when he catches a glimpse of bright red, reflecting on the countertop.

His LED.

The tips of his fingers begin to itch horribly. One can't speak of an action of his own volition when this awful sensation drives him to go to the bathroom, seeking out his reflection in the mirror. Connor's gaze is glued to the little circle at his temple, pulsating and flickering erratically with his thought process.

/ / Analyzing . . .

His skin isn't very thick, only a millimeter. Thinner than human skin.

Connor looks at his fingernails. Yet, they're not long nor sharp enough to even scrape his skin; it’s thin, but robust material. He licks his lips, thinking they've become dry during this fit of whatever this may be. It's an impulse, an intrusive thought. One that's very hard to resist. He opens the bathroom cabinet and sees loose razor blades– he'd damage his hands that way. His cortex jumps back to the kitchen. A knife should do just fine. Yes, yes, a knife. When he hastes into the kitchen, he almost trips over the Saint Bernard, who had sprawled out across the tiled floor. Connor doesn’t pay more attention to Sumo past acknowledging his presence and begins rummaging around in the first drawer he can reach, picking the first knife his greedy fingers can reach.

His damned LED flickers yellow. It’s a Santoku knife, his analysis tells him, fine steelware that was possibly a gift from someone. That’ll do. Connor blinks as he scans the cutting edge with keen eyes and finds it to be perfectly sharp. It’s unused. Paws tatter impatiently on the tiles and Sumo whines at the android, as if he knows what is about to transpire. Connor looks down at the dog, who's whimpering and seems extremely nervous.

“Sit.”, Connor says, perhaps a bit harsher than intended. Sumo heeds his command, albeit with his head lowered as he desperately avoids eye contact. Without a second thought, the android returns to the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. Sumo doesn’t know how to open doors, so this should be enough to keep him out.

And again, he finds himself staring into the mirror. His expression doesn’t betray the war waging behind fabricated walls. Connor fucking hates it. The LED blinks frantically in deep red. His thirium pump accelerates. Is he afraid? Is he angered? Is it morbid excitement? He can’t tell. It’s an empty void; everything at once and nothing at all, at the same time. It’s near torturous when he brings the knife to his temple, the tip of it set to the edge of the LED. Despite the fact that he’s gone deviant, his system still has warnings flash before his eyes. The red light circles in an inexplicably mocking manner in addition–

And that’s when Connor sets the first cut.

His vision goes static for a moment and it stings like all hell. Androids aren’t supposed to feel pain, yet it seems that CyberLife has equipped him with pain receptors to prevent something like this. Cruel fucks, the lot of them. In spite of the pain, he continues to cut along the edge of the circle, carving with the precision of a trained surgeon– and perhaps even better than that. Thirium runs down the side of his face, dripping into the sink and down the drain. In impatience, he takes a quick jab, lodging the knife between the LED and his temple component. He wants to fling the fucking thing from his head and into the trash already, but he finds himself unable to. The knife is stuck.

Connor panics.

His chest heaves, nonexistent lungs erratically twitching to bring unnecessary oxygen into his system. Clear fluid leaks from his eyes, imitating tears of distress. The android lets go of the knife’s handle, finding that it stays upright even without the support of his hand. His eye twitches at random intervals due to the foreign intrusion. It’s threatening to drive him insane. Just what a sight he is, eh?

An error message flashes before Connor’s eyes: critical defect on component 7698y detected; he just successfully damaged his right optical unit.

Hank is not going to have a good time with buying the spare component, that much is sure, but… Connor doesn't want him to. He waits for a moment, allows the pain to flood his system. Strangely, he feels alive. A hand reaches up for the handle anew and with all his might, he pulls on it, launching the battered LED against the mirror which leaves a blotch of blue on the glass before it clatters into the sink. It flickers with its last bits of energy, before the knife is brought down upon it, multiple times. He stabs the little circle just about mindlessly, his expression devoid of all turmoil– yet, Connor seethes with hate. His face is still damp with tears, but they remain silent ones. The LED has been reduced to mere particles, but he keeps repeating the motion with his arm. For a little while longer. It feels… Good. Liberating.

Eventually, the knife drops into the sink with loud clattering and Connor looks at his right hand, palm dyed in blue. He's entranced by the vibrant color, doesn't hear Sumo bark as a key is turned in the front door's lock. His gaze then flicks back to his reflection. The damaged eye component has come to a complete halt, no longer even moving in it's socket and a pupil widened. He's no longer a flawless masterpiece of engineering. His teeth are bared in a stiff smile as he touches his open temple, his white base frame showing between pale skin. It's not closing– why isn't the wound closing? Had he overdone it? Ahhh, no matter, no matter! It's good like this.

“Connor?”, Hank calls for him.

Sumo scratches at the bathroom door, whining and whimpering more than before.

At once, all faux joy from his little achievement is gone. Something sinks at his midst. Connor sees himself in the mirror again, takes in his scarred temple, the immobile eye, the wasted thirium– a terrified yelp leaves him. He really did this.

The door handle is pressed down and Connor turns around to face the door.

“Here you a– jesus-fucking-christ, Connor!”, Hank exclaims, eyes wide in shock as he rushes to him, grabbing the nearest available towel to press it to his temple.

The bleeding has stopped by now, but the pain is stronger than ever. It sizzles against his skin like pure electricity. He can only look at the other in silence.

Hank's gaze falls on the bloodied knife in the sink. “What the fuck did you do!?” Carefully, he backs Connor toward the bathtub, seating him on the edge. He's exasperated, a subtle tremble shaking him. His heart rate is high. He's afraid, shocked.

He gives no answer for now.

Is this shame, Connor wonders, is this the humble price of being human?

“Connor?!”, Hank's voice cracks every so slightly as he drops the towel and holds the android at both shoulders, shaking him just a bit. “C'mon, stay with me!”

“... The LED.”, he begins with hesitation, ”I took the freedom of getting rid of it. It caused me great discomfort, Hank.”

“So ya carve it outta yer fucking skull?”, he barks back, teeth gritted.

Connor… flinches. He's being yelled at, so he flinches, curls in on himself. Shoulders slump, bloodied hands fold in his lap. He averts his eyes. “Yes.”, he replies, “That I did.” Reflexively, his forearm is dragged across his face, wiping fresh tears that are slowly making their way down his face, mixing with blue blood. “I rejected it. I couldn't bear to look at it any longer.”

Even Connor can feel Hank's heart sink at that heartbreaking sight. Surely, he wants to cuss and yell more, but for once, he keeps it to himself. He turns around to search the bathroom cabinet, ends up with bandages in hand. Hank doesn't waste time with acting carefully, and wraps the bandages around the android's head to his best abilities. He's a detective and not a nurse, goddamnit. The blue-stained towel is picked up anew and he proceeds to wipe off the drying blotches of thirium on his face and then his hand.

“Eugh, what a fuckin’ mess.”, Hank grunts and puts the balled up towel into the sink.

That alone is enough to cause Connor to huddle up even smaller, his head lowered further. “I am deeply sorry for the inconvenience I have caused. I didn't think about anything… but myself.”

“Don't sweat it.”, Hank replies with a sigh heaving in his chest, “This ain't nothing that can't be fixed.” His heart rate has finally slowed, but he remains anxious, evident in the sweat that has built on his temples and forehead. “C'mon, let's get ya to the couch.” With great care he helps Connor up, who has mild problems with standing straight.

Pain radiates from his temple, pulsating with each pump of his main bio component. Ah, a headache? How peculiar. Is this normal for humans? Was going through this ordeal not useless after all?

Hank manages to guide him from the bathroom to the couch, helping him lay down. Almost instinctively, the android pulls his legs close to his body as he lays on his side. His system keeps showing him blurred error messages and warnings, flashing before his eyes. He doesn't react when the other steps away from him. Androids shouldn't feel things like fatigue, but right this moment Connor is sure that he found out what it feels like. His stress level sits at a solid fifty-four percent. However, he is more disoriented than anything else by now.

Hank sets down a cylinder-shaped container onto the coffee table before him– spare thirium. Then, he lets himself plop down onto the couch next to Connor, after-work-beer in hand. He sighs excessively loud, before he speaks,

“This sure as hell ain't how I imagined my evenin’ to be.”

“I wasn't assessing the situation properly.”, Connor replies, stiff and calculating, “In retrospect, I had a thirty percent chance to damage my cortex with a knife of that size.”

“Don't revert back into a stone-cold bastard, you're better than that–”, Hank retorts, “–Also, probability calculations aren't a strength o’ mine, but that's still a kinda small chance… Can't believe I'm pep-talkin’ ya.” He snorts at himself before taking a swig of beer. “Anyway, ya better go ahead and tear another hole in my budget; ya lost a lot of blood.” When his tone had something light-hearted, something teasing earlier, there's now genuine worry weighing in.

“I will soon.”, Connor says, “But for now, I'll go into maintenance mode for my own good.”

Cue an amused huff. “Jus’ say yer gonna take a nap, kid.”

Connor reminds him a bit of a retired police dog; once programmed to kill and attack, he now finds himself struggling with a simple life, and in his special case even simpler words to describe his actions. Soon enough, the TV is turned on for some calming background noise between them and so the android decides to run a quick diagnosis routine.

/ / Optical component 7698y critically damaged. Acquire new part.

/ / Thirium level at 88.7 percent. Administer thirium under supervision.

/ / Moderate stress level. Find means to de-stress.

/ / Software instability detected. (... Fuck off).

Connor can't keep himself from scoffing at the last point. To be fair, he's sick of being notified that there is an unstable element in his firmware. Humans call that a developing personality. He’s more than his programming and destined purpose, but… well, perhaps it’s a bit too early for him to fully recognize that.

“Found anythin’?”, Hank inquiries, tips of his fingers drumming against the glass bottle idly.

“I'll need a new optical unit. It's a common model though, so it should be rather easy to acquire.”

“Shit–” Cue a coarse sigh. “Ya think ya can hold out till next month? I already bought two units of thirium and it blew my last pay check into fuckin’ oblivion.”

“I hope you don't mind me having a lazy eye for that duration, then.”

“Well, y’know, look on the bright side: we’re two ugly bastards now.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor opens the bathroom cabinet, sifting through its contents till his fingers meet sterile material. In a slow, almost ceremonious motion, he closes it. Again, he looks at himself, but this time, everything seems… better. During maintenance period his system managed to fix up his temple– it's a minor repair, but he couldn't be happier. There's a light blue scar left behind, marking his blemish-free skin. A hand is brought up to touch it. The skin feels coarse beneath the pad of his finger. However his optical unit remains heavily damaged. His right eye is half lidded and unmoving, pupil widened and without reaction. It doesn't even react to the command to blink, sent by his cortex.
> 
> But he doesn't care. 
> 
> He likes it this way. 
> 
> His gaze fixates on the object in his hands: a white eyepatch. He's excited, irrationally so. Hank went by the pharmacy on his way home yesterday and bought it for him. Connor hasn't tried it on yet– but that's what he intends to do right now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> since I received sm positive feedback 4 my first thing, I'm adding some more stuff (there's gonna be a third part likely)
> 
> disclaimer: no beta, everything is okay, haha lazy eye connor

Connor opens the bathroom cabinet, sifting through its contents till his fingers meet sterile material. In a slow, almost ceremonious motion, he closes it. Again, he looks at himself, but this time, everything seems… better. During maintenance period his system managed to fix up his temple– it's a minor repair, but he couldn't be happier. There's a light blue scar left behind, marking his blemish-free skin. A hand is brought up to touch it. The skin feels coarse beneath the pad of his finger. However his optical unit remains heavily damaged. His right eye is half lidded and unmoving, pupil widened and without reaction. It doesn't even react to the command to blink, sent by his cortex.

But he doesn't care. 

He likes it this way. 

His gaze fixates on the object in his hands: a white eyepatch. He's excited, irrationally so. Hank went by the pharmacy on his way home yesterday and bought it for him. Connor hasn't tried it on yet– but that's what he intends to do right now. 

With great care, he stretches the material, testing it's flexibility and boundaries. He lifts it to his face equally careful, pulling the loops behind his ears. Then, he adjusts the patch, so that it covers his defective eye and a bit of his scar. Connor blinks, tilting his head as to look at his face from different angles. It looks good. This way, he doesn't stand out too much, but also doesn't seem so disgustingly flawless anymore. His thirium pump flutters in delight and he returns to the living room, where the morning news are on TV. 

With newfound pep in his step he paces to the couch and sprawls out on it completely, resting on his side. He's been following the news closely– the group known as Jericho has gained a considerable degree of authority in a short time. Markus has proven himself as a diplomat of the highest tier; there's no saying in what he will accomplish in the years to come. As of recent, he negotiated for an update which would tear down the remaining bounds that humans had planted into androids. And according to the news service, the first more urgent appointments would be set today. Connor is highly invested in such great news, but still perks up when he hears the bathroom door shut. 

It's seven in the morning on a work day. Someone's awake early. Could Hank be planning to go to work at this time of day? How unusual. Not too long ago, he would refuse to get up before eleven, but now he voluntarily gets up at seven, sometimes even six to take Sumo out for a walk. His biorhythm has gotten way better than it was before, and he doesn't drink as much anymore either. The reason, Connor can't grasp. 

Little does he know that it's his mere presence, his company that has brought this bitter old man long lost joy.

He decides to get up and prepare coffee in the kitchen, Sumo trotting around and sniffing at his feet. Just as he's pouring the hot beverage into a big mug, Hank rounds the corner, hair still wet from showering. 

“Mornin’”, he grunts and yawns. 

“Good morning.”, Connor hums and holds the steaming mug out to Hank, who accepts it with a subtle smile on his face. It's the little things that count, he notes. Hank is a simple individual, though hidden behind half-hearted hostility and bitterness. A bit like an old, combat-scarred street mutt. 

“It suits ya.”, Hank states after taking a sip of coffee. He doesn't wait for an answer and goes for the couch to sit down. 

“What do you mean?”, the android says as he follows and sits down next to him. 

“Eyepatch.”, he replies, without looking at Connor. Cue another sip. 

“I'm glad you think so.”

“Nah–”, Hank begins and shakes his head, setting his mug down on the coffee table, “–That ain't important here. Do ya like it?”

“Yes.”, Connor nods to himself, “Yes, I do.”

Hank only huffs in response. “Good.”

And after that, silence reigns between them. Both have their attention fixated on the TV for the next minute or so; Markus is giving a public speech, dressed up all professional. World's first android politician, the humans call him. And Connor would've loved to listen to what he has to say, but instead, he is distracted. He blinks rapidly, something sizzles at his cortex. 

/ / Receiving Transmission . . . 

He grunts, feeling for his damaged temple. It just stung horribly again. Included in the transmission is the information for the update appointment he heard about earlier. It's today, at three in the afternoon. Immediately, he can feel himself grow restless. They see him as an urgent case, it says. This worries him. Greatly. 

“Ya okay, kid?”, Hank asks with worry in his expression, leaning forward to catch a glimpse at the android's expression. 

“Ah–” Connor can feel his damaged eye twitch uncontrollably again, a few stray tears flowing. “Yes– yes, I'm– I'm fine.”

“Shit, it's your eye again, ain't it?” There's something heavier weighing in Hank's voice now. Guilt. He doesn't have the money for the spare part right now. Connor doesn't understand why he feels this way. “Want me to get ya a lil’ pick-me-up?”

“My thirium level is still at ninety percent. It's advised to administer some at this point.”

“A plain yes woulda been enough.”, Hank chuckles as he gets up and walks over to the fridge. He returns with the familiar CyberLife container filled with blue liquid, except that this one seems more compact than the rest. 

Almost greedily, Connor reaches for it and snags it from Hank's hands, pulling out a straw-like nozzle from the seal at the top. There's not much left, but it shall be enough to raise his thirium level to the recommended ninety-five percent. He sips with haste, and it doesn't take long for the grating sound of air being sucked through a straw to set in. There's a mild spike of annoyance in Hank's demeanor. Much to his surprise, Hank takes the container from him without another word, even as he was still trying to get the last few drops out. Connor pouts at him in a rather childish manner. 

“Yeah, yeah, don't gimme that face.”, the older man scoffs at him, taking both his mug and the CyberLife container into the kitchen, putting both in the sink and turning on the water. 

… and thus leaving Connor alone with new worries. He fidgets with both hands in his lap. They're calling him in. Of course, the situation with androids has changed drastically– a power shift between creator and creation. And yet, Connor finds himself suspecting that they will deactivate and disassemble him. Perhaps he knows too much for their tastes. They possibly changed their mind for their advantage in the long run, eliminating any and all androids involved in the police force to prevent security breach. Yes, that must be it. It's no longer just a weird sensation at his midst or an impulse; right now, the android experiences raw and completely real fear. His palms grow oily, fingernails digging into his wrist. What can he do? He won't go back to CyberLife all alone, that much is certain...

Hank. He has to ask Hank. 

And suddenly, without his own doing, words spring forth, “–Dad?”, he inquires, neck craning toward kitchen. 

Hard plastic clatters in the metal sink. Hank dropped the container. In shock. 

He doesn't wait for an answer and instead continues, “I have a request to make. CyberLife has called me in for an urgent update which takes place at three this afternoon and.” An abrupt stop. “And. I'm scared to go on my own. I would like your– your emotional support.”

Hank seems tense. His shoulders remain stiff for several moments– but then, they sink. He gives a loud exhale, looking at Connor over his shoulder. “Yeah, sure I can give ya a ride.” Cue careful consideration. “... Ya can come with me to work today, actually. ‘s office duty for me and some different scenery once in a while would do ya good.” 

“I will get ready, then.”, he nods, his eye glued to the human. 

Connor has never seen Hank smile sincerely before. Not like this.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After mild difficulties they eventually enter the police department, hand in hand. Despite his current mood, Connor looks around attentively. Not much changed since he's been here, except for the fact that there's no androids stuck in ports in the back of the office any longer. They're the first ones as it seems and–
> 
> Connor stops in his tracks abruptly, nearly crushing Hank's hand in his grip. Before them, stands an android: another RK800, who was seemingly about to get to work at his desk before they stepped in. He's looking at himself. Another instance. No. This is a different person. This is not him. This is not Connor. This one's hair is blonde and he has green eyes. He's also way taller and has a wider build. At second glance, he only looks vaguely like him after all. It appears that he's just as distressed as Connor, evident in the LED flashing red at his temple.
> 
> “Good morning, Lieutenant Anderson.”, the RK800 says, his voice at least two octaves deeper than Connor's. This is fucked up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heyy this took me a lil while since i wasnt feel so well recently but here it is finally
> 
> disclaimer: no beta, connor is a mess, a new challenger appears

“C'mon.”, Hank pushes on, a tiny bit impatient.

Connor had gotten out of the car, but remained frozen in place, attentively scanning the police station. It's been how long? Three or four months? His deviancy practically made it impossible to work in this field any longer, forcing him to retire from duty. He doesn't regret it. At all. Connor was constantly at his breaking point when he still worked here, as if he had lost his efficiency in dealing with stress.

He has gotten soft, no doubt about it.

“I'm anxious.”, Connor states, hands kept close to his midst as they fidget.

Hank sighs softly. “They ain't gonna kill ya. Yer jus’ a visitor, okay?”, he tries to reassure, “C'mere, kid.” He holds out his hand to Connor.

He hesitates. “–Can I go back home, Hank?”

“And what are ya gonna do when yer home? Sit around?”, Hank responds with loud grumbling, “I’m pretty damn sure stayin’ cooped up the whole time ain’t good for ya.”

He’s right. He’s absolutely right. In fact, it wouldn’t even be a bold statement to say that Connor had only rejected his state of being because he was on his own and practically doomed to ponder on things like that. It’s his own fault. Yes, that’s right. Had he listened to Hank, he wouldn’t have hurt himself. He's stupid, selfish.

“Shit, Connor, yer leaking.”, Hank says, his voice hushed and filled with worry, as he fumbles for something in his pockets. Tissues.

“Seems like it.”, Connor replies, wiping away the stray tears that started making their way down his face. Devoid of all emotion.

He's tired.

“C'mon–”, Hank says again, this time just grabbing Connor's hand tightly in an attempt to reassure, “Yer gonna be fine. Promise.”

“Understood.”, the android says with a nod, and he returns to acting like he was programmed to. Or he tries to do so. Connor feels lost; he'd rather not feel at all. It's weird, foreign. Is this what Hank felt like when he tried to take his own life? He understands now.

Hank looks at him for another moment, his expression unreadable to Connor. It's hard to say what he thinks, but he definitely seems… troubled. He's worrying him. Fuck. After mild difficulties they eventually enter the police department, hand in hand. Despite his current mood, Connor looks around attentively. Not much changed since he's been here, except for the fact that there's no androids stuck in ports in the back of the office any longer. They're the first ones as it seems and–

Connor stops in his tracks abruptly, nearly crushing Hank's hand in his grip. Before them, stands an android: another RK800, who was seemingly about to get to work at his desk before they stepped in. He's looking at himself. Another instance. No. This is a different person. This is not him. This is not Connor. This one's hair is blonde and he has green eyes. He's also way taller and has a wider build. At second glance, he only looks vaguely like him after all. It appears that he's just as distressed as Connor, evident in the LED flashing red at his temple.

“Good morning, Lieutenant Anderson.”, the RK800 says, his voice at least two octaves deeper than Connor's. This is fucked up.

“Mornin’, Jesse.”, Hank gives the android a nod, who then takes a last irritated look at Connor, before shaking his head and sitting down, “By the way, ‘s still Hank for ya.”, he adds, not waiting for an answer.

They walk past his desk, and yet, Connor finds himself turning his head to look curiously at “Jesse”, who returns the gesture. However, there's no longer distress; his LED is yellow right now. He's scanning him. Connor decides to do the same.

/ / Model RK900.

Wait. What?

/ / FURTHER ACCESS DENIED.

Fuck.

/ / NICE TRY, RK800.

The thirium freezes in his artificial veins when that particular message pops up. From the corner of his eye he can see the faint inklings of a smug demeanor on Jesse's face. He was aware of his scan attempt, even without the RK800’s LED. Hell, he seemed to feel it. Connor shakes his head to get rid of the message he was sent, and directs his attention forward again.

When they reach Hank's desk, he wiggles his hand out of the other's grip and wipes it on his clothes. Humans get greasy hands when you hold them for too long. Interesting, but also kinda nasty.

“Wow– thanks, asshole.”, Hank can't keep a laugh to himself as he takes off his jacket, hanging it over the backrest of his chair.

“I meant no offense. My hands are just sensitive.”, he replies, a subtle but apologetic smile pulling at his lips. It's almost amazing how this but of distraction can make his mood go from a low to a high. His gaze flicks to the desk opposite to Hank's. His old desk. It's still empty, no personal belongings, no papers, no name. Connor takes the freedom of taking a seat at it, leaning back and folding his hands at his stomach. Then, Connor catches Hank looking at him with a more or less fond expression, the skin at the outer corners of his eyes crinkling. He seems proud, perhaps a bit… enamored is the wrong word, but he doesn't have anything better.

“What?”, Connor inquiries.

“Nothin’–” Cue a moment of hesitation. ”–son.”

It takes a bit for Hank's words to settle. There's movement in his chest cavity– his thirium pump is threatening to break through its given confines. Hank called him “son”, after Connor called him “dad”. It… causes an unusual sensation in his midriff, almost like pressure rising within. It's not uncomfortable in any way, quite the opposite, actually. There's a clear difference between the despair-like emotion he felt before and… this; he can tell, even if he wasn't made to feel things. It's hard to find proper words for it– but that's not the root of his problem. He was never meant to grasp the concept of emotion, so no matter how intelligent, how advanced his vocabulary is, he's unable to describe it. Then, his cortex skips forward, showing him the transmission he had received from CyberLife earlier this morning. Yes, the update. Perhaps that's the missing piece. Will CyberLife make him whole? He's both afraid and excited to find out.

“If you say so, dad.”, Connor replies eventually, his feet pressing along the floor to make him spin in his chair slowly as he idles.

Hank doesn't say anything, but Connor can see that he's desperately trying to blink away small tears to keep up his image as a cop who usually presents himself from a completely different perspective. Despite his minor emotional outbreak, he gets to work at his terminal in the end...

… which leaves Connor to himself. He might not be doing anything productive– like he probably would've done if he had stayed home– but he's content having fun with the spinny office chair (which is something they don't have at home).

At least for the first hour.

By now, it's half past nine and Connor slumped down in his chair, arms behind his head. It's slowly getting busy. Some are just getting on duty while others get ready to patrol Detroit. There's a lot of androids, too.

However, according to his scans, Jesse remains the only RK900. It still freaks him out. Just what is he? A prototype of a prototype? Connor ponders– of course, it makes sense. CyberLife needed a replacement in case he wouldn't be able to fulfill his mission. They must've released him when they opened the gates of the CyberLife tower. Considering that, there must be multiple copies of him, too. He shudders at that. What a distressing, yet fascinating thought.

“Hey, Connor?”, Hank asks, clearing his throat, “Could ya get me a coffee?”

It takes the android a moment to process the request; resting mode set in a few minutes ago, causing him to be sluggish. He gets up without a word, straightening his clothes, and makes his way over to the break room. At least it's empty. With the press of a button, the coffee machine sparks to life and gives a low hum as it fills a paper cup with steaming hot coffee.

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

Connor turns and looks into the face of Gavin, who seems not pleased about his random visit. Some things never change, huh?

“Getting coffee.”, the android responds truthfully, his demeanor bright and attentive. Gavin seemed to hate that the most about him, he vaguely recalls.

The detective is about to open his mouth as he makes his way over to him, hands already longing to take him by his clothes. Connor stays backed against the counter, staring down Gavin in the hope that a cold stare would be just enough. At the same time, he’s preparing for the imminent impact. However, it doesn't come to anything more than heated eye contact.

“Reed.” That's all the RK900 needs to growl to make Gavin stop in his tracks. He gets close to the detective, fucking towering over him. That imposing presence is enough to have Reed's hands drop down on their own. Judging by Jesse's body language, he’s livid– probably just wanted to take a quick break. Yes, body language. His suspicion regarding his existence and purpose seems to be true: he’s an improved prototype of him. Not even Connor was programmed to execute complex behavioural routines like that… or his deviancy is advanced to the point where he just does it. Like a normal person.

“He's just a visitor; get off his back.”, comes the next grunt from Jesse.

“Oh wow, one plastic fuck prote–”, Gavin begins to sneer with a mocking demeanor, but is cut off.

“Just get the fuck back to work before I call Fowler on your ass again.”, Jesse snarls at Gavin, “I'm sick of your bullshit.”

His expression turns white as a sheet in the matter of a split second. “... Yeah, Lieutenant.” Pardon? Lieutenant? Well, doesn’t matter– he can question things further later. It's pretty damn satisfying to see Reed back off and leave with his tail between his legs without further hesitation or hostilities.

Though, he can't blame him. He hasn't had Jesse around for longer than an hour, but he already seems like the worst type of individual to get in trouble with. It must be the voice. In retrospect, Jesse does differ a lot more from Connor than he first thought, but his most jarring feature is that goddamn voice. Jesse is man’s flawless, untouched dream in hard plastic– with the voice and attitude of a bouncer. Speaking of which, Jesse looks at him for another moment, LED flickering yellow. He's analysing again. Connor feels just a bit uncomfortable– it's almost like he's picking him apart with his eyes. Is this what everyone felt like when he was scanning them? Connor can actually feel tension bleed off his shoulders when Jesse turns to the vending machine, finally averting his eyes; that's how bad it is. And then, there's silence between them. Well, they have nothing to say to each other after all. They're not colleagues.

With the cup in hand, Connor wants to make his way back to Hank. However–

“Hey, kid.”, Jesse begins, “Fetch.”

Something is tossed at him. The android catches it in a perfectly calculated (and therefore very stiff) motion, without spilling even a single drop of coffee. Jesse bought him a travel-sized container of thirium. Huh. He didn't even know they started making those… mostly because he rarely leaves the house and keeps general interaction with his environment to only the necessary minimum.

“Thank you, Lieutenant.”, Connor gives a subtle bow of his head.

“Pro-tip: just tell Reed to fuck off next time.”, Jesse tells him, taking a sip from his own thirium. “Makes things easier.”

Connor nods in acknowledgment, not gracing Jesse with another look as he leaves. It's strange as all hell and he'd rather not look at him more than necessary. The question is, just how many are there of him? How many prototypes did CyberLife build after his image? Machinery within him clamors suddenly– he forgot something. If they start calling the urgent update cases in today, he’s going to see more… selves of himself. Again, he shakes his head to clear his mind of those thoughts before he returns to Hank, setting the cup down on his desk beside him.

“Thanks, son.”, Hank says and turns his head to look at him with an unmasked smile on his face. And this time, it’s contagious. Connor can feel a subtle pull at the corners of his mouth. Fingers clutch onto his little thirium bottle as he holds it close to his front. That indescribable feeling from earlier is back. His pump doesn’t hammer in his chest, no. It slows down. He’s calm, comfortable.

Hank comforts him.

“I forgot to ask how you’d like your coffee. I hope black is fine.”, Connor says when he eventually moves from Hank's side and returns to his seat (where he promptly continues to spin on his chair slowly).

But Hank doesn’t answer. He’s too busy drinking the coffee already. Connor gives a little snort at that; he really needed that, huh? The cop puts his cup down after a few moments and leans back in his chair, following Connor's example.

“By the way, whaddya think o’ Jesse?”, Hank asks as he stretches in his seat, joints popping.

Connor blinks at him in confusion. “He's an android, a RK900.”

“Ya know that ain't what I meant.”

“I don't know enough about him to form a valid opinion at this point.”, Connor responds straight-forward as ever, albeit fidgeting with the bottle in his hands, “I doubt that my first impression is what you'd like to hear.” The question is quite sudden. He scans Hank through his terminal's transparent screen attentively, trying to read his expression– but he seems genuinely curious. And there's something else. Something he can't place.

“Nah, I hear ya.” A short pause. “But he's an approachable guy... and I do worry ‘bout ya not really, y'know, goin’ out and that kinda shit.” Hank takes another sip of coffee.

Connor's brows furrow, now even more confused. “I understand your worry.”, he says, “But what I don't understand is, however, why you are telling me this.”

“Yer gonna need some buddies sooner or later, Connor.” Hank sighs softly, his elbow resting on his desk while his palm supports his chin.

“Do you wish to introduce him to me?” His head tilts just a bit.

“Well… yeah.”, Hank responds, shrugging. “We've worked together a couple times; he's a real nice guy– and a damn good cop.” For the next sentence, he lowers his voice, just enough so that only Connor can hear it. “Way better than some humans I gotta work wit’.”

“I do find him to be intriguing. Despite our glaring similarities.”, Connor states, “If you'd like me to pursue a positive relationship with him, I will do so.”

“No, Connor.”, Hank scoffs, “What I want ain't important.”

There's hesitation from Connor's side. The concept of befriending someone is foreign to him, despite being made to integrate into human society perfectly. That's the issue here. He was made to do so. After rejecting his design, he perhaps lost his already lacking social charm. However, Hank is right. Connor is rather shut in, so a friend (aside from Sumo) would do him good. And Jesse… well, Jesse seems nice enough. He already took a stand against Reed for him, bought him some thirium. Would his LED still sit at his temple, it’d be steadily cycling in yellow now. Interpersonal relations aren’t his given expertise, but he wants to try.

“I, myself, as an independent individual, would like to pursue a positive relationship with Lieutenant–”

“Boxwell.”

“–with Lieutenant Boxwell.”

A moment of awkward silence between them.

“... God, ya really gotta work on yer social skills, Con.” Cue a snort.

Ever slowly, Connor’s features curl into a frown, at which Hank snorts anew, subtly trying to hide behind the divider between the two work spaces in order to remain unscathed. If looks could kill, Hank would be long dead. He knows it's just gentle teasing (with some truth behind it), but it still throws him off.

“If you would rather mock than encourage me, I will now go into standby mode until I'm either needed or we leave for the appointment at CyberLife.”, Connor scoffs back at Hank with clenched jaws, pulling himself close to the desk and hands folding on top of it.

“Aw, c'mon, don't be like that.”

But Hank's words fall on deactivated audio units. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and heres a doodle of [jesse](https://i.imgur.com/OkP9ln5.png), courtesy of my bestie

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading!!! (comments + kudos appreciated)


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